


Lepidoptera

by nonhic



Series: Jewel Net [5]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, Conspiracy, Mytharc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonhic/pseuds/nonhic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Up to Requiem, ignores seasons 8-9. No pregnancies to be found.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Lepidoptera

**Author's Note:**

> Up to Requiem, ignores seasons 8-9. No pregnancies to be found.

He wakes up before the sun appears, when the air is cool and the street lights are still flickering. It's a personal habit, developed over many years - a consequence of his chosen profession. He's used to it and doesn't bother to try to fall back asleep. In the dark he lies awake, in a bed that isn't his own, and he listens for the sound of fabric against skin or the metallic clink of a gun. But the room is silent, and he rubs his eyes. Being utterly alone isn't always a curse.

He cracks his spine as he sits on the edge of the bed and puts on his socks. These rooms are always filthy; the maids merely drag their useless vacuums over the ragged tufts of carpet. It's the same in every place.

In the bathroom he does the usual routine, and when he's done he leans over the sink and surveys himself in the mirror. He hasn't shaved in several days, and he feels the roughness when his hand passes over his jaw. The stubble doesn't itch; he isn't particularly fond of it, nor does he dislike it. He wonders if it's worth the effort to get the razor out. Sometimes he wishes he had someone to tell him what to do about the little things. If only there were someone there to make these frivolous requests so that he may please them so easily. But in the end it's only him that stares into the mirror, and he tears his gaze away because it reminds him of that very fact.

He straps the prosthesis in place and dresses as quickly as having one arm would allow, then gathers his few things and dumps them in the backseat of the car. The attendant in the office is surly, irritated at being woken up from his nap in the early morning. But Krycek doesn't care and tosses the key on the counter. People don't bother him much anymore. He knows they're the walking dead.

The attendant grunts, and Krycek turns to leave. The hinge of the door gives a pitiful creak as he leaves yet another nameless motel.

On the open road he is calmer. Staying still is a risk; moving is better. He's on his way to a randomly-selected town that he picked from a coffee-stained road map the night before. In his head he calculates the week's travel expenses, a little worried about the thinness of his wallet tucked against his thigh.

He hopes there's a motel at his destination that is as cheap as the previous one. At this point his cash is running low and using his fake credit cards might leave a trail. He's hundreds of miles away from the major city where one of his stashes is located, and even then, he wonders if it will be there if he reaches it at all.

By noontime he is still driving; the road is empty and the grey clouds overhead form patterns on the open hills. He rolls down the window and smells the petrichor and guesses that it's about to rain.

When the drops begin to fall, he leaves the window open to breathe in the scent of wet earth, to listen to the tread of the tires stick and unstick from the asphalt. The water stings his cheek and he wipes it away with his shoulder.

He doesn't allow himself to think of her. There's no point in dwelling on the things that he can't have - he's learned this long ago. It's far too distracting, and that's the last thing he needs. But sometimes thoughts of her surface, and he feels the ache in his chest and the dryness in his mouth. He wants to forget, he wants to quell the memories, but at the end of the day he's helpless to stop them.

He was worried about her. He didn't know if the people after him would make the connection and look for her instead. When she picked up the phone the first time, he felt his jaw grow rigid, his sense of relief undermined and overwhelmed by an intense longing to be with her again. He remembers hanging up the phone and driving for hours in the darkness, cursing his own foolishness as he watched the headlights overtake the broken yellow lines of the highway.

When his phonecalls were left unanswered, he panicked and doubled-back, the only thing on his mind was to get to D.C. and see her. He found her outside her apartment, dressed for work, pushing open the doors of the same front entrance where he had waited for her on so many late nights. How good it was back then, to simply have someone to go to. He controlled the urge to chase after her, his nerves were shot and he'd barely slept in the last two days. Besides, he wasn't sure if she wanted to see him again.

He found a motel room and crashed, his right arm draped over his eyes to block the sunlight that seeped in through the blinds. At midnight he woke, decided to leave and began to round up his things. In the midst of his scattered belongings, he discovered the jacket she had given him. The canvas was stiff, hardened by cheap motel soap from when he washed out the blood, dried in the stale air of a dusty room that hadn't seen a guest in weeks. At first he had thought it was Mulder's, but while he let the jacket soak in the copper-colored water in the basin, he found a name sewn into the collar - a quaint little mark, suggestive of family and maternal affection. It belonged to her brother, he later realized. The name was in her profile when he had read it years ago, just weeks before Duane Barry, when he pulled her into this never-ending nightmare.

He had to return it. He had no right to keep something as personal as this. It would have been smarter to burn the jacket, but he didn't have the heart to do it. Her sister was gone because of him. He couldn't bear to take this away from her, too.

In the shadows he watched Mulder bound towards the elevator, leaving Scully in the basement office for him to find. The package crackled inside his jacket, and he wondered when he had become so careless and weak.

He accepted her initial coldness with resignation, it wasn't like he deserved anything else. But to his surprise she softened, and he found himself in deference to her concern and tender grip. She frowned a little when he reluctantly turned to leave, her eyes scanning empty space as she searched for the appropriate words. 

'I'll still be here,' she had said, and he understood her meaning. In that moment his mind went blank, and the only thing he could say was her name. He whispered it into her hair as he held onto her, and even now he can remember the way she felt against his chest while something inside of him broke.

He grips the steering wheel. The dampness on his face isn't only from the rain coming in through the window. His lungs shut down; there's burning sensation in the pit of his stomach that rips its way into his throat. He slams the brakes and pulls over, stumbles into the muddy ditch and retches.

He hasn't eaten since last night, so nothing comes out, only the bitter lining of his gut. He kneels on the ground, chest heaving as he struggles to breathe. The rain mingles with his tears and suddenly he feels ashamed. But there isn't anyone there to see his pitiful display. The road is still empty and the only sound he hears is the soft plinking of raindrops against the hood of the car. With a slight sob he pushes off the ground and returns to the vehicle that is still humming on the side of the road.

Hopland, he thinks, as he slides into the driver's seat. That's where he's supposed to be. He shakes his head to sober up and tells himself that he needs to get some gas.

The rest of the day is a blur. He passes by countless reststops while he rain comes and goes but never ceases entirely. He doesn't listen to the radio; the metronomic shunting of the windshield wipers is enough to calm his nerves.

It's nearly dark by the time he makes it to the little town. His belly is full from whatever he picked up at the gas station, and thoughts of her have not yet returned. He pays for his room and stalks down the open passageway beneath the overhang. 

Moths gather at the buzzing lights above every door; the dead ones have fallen to the bottom of each glass vessel. He thinks he understands how it happens: the moths look to the moon for direction but are misled by their own instincts, or perhaps they settle on the glowing surface to sleep, lulled by the artificial daylight and eventually meeting their demise. He sympathizes. They can't help it, he thinks, they want to escape the darkness, too.

He locates the room and does the usual sweep. He finds nothing. The phone sits in his lap, his bags are dumped at the foot of the bed. He wants to call her, but he can't think of anything to say. An hour passes and he feels foolish. This wasn't the plan, he tells himself, he was never supposed to feel this way about her.

He returns the phone to the nightstand and retrieves his toiletry bag. The light in the bathroom reveals web-like stains on the tile floor when he flips the switch. He turns on the water and prepares to take a cold shower because warm evenings like this still remind him too much of Tunisia. The cool water numbs his scalp, and he forces himself to stand under the spray even though his lungs are swelling.

She's on my side, he thinks. She isn't his, nor will she ever be, but he is hers and he knows she wouldn't turn him away. He takes solace in this scrap of clemency and bows his head under the sheet of water. It feels like her fingers in his hair, when she offered comfort for his scars. He lets the thoughts drain away, the hammering of the spray against the tub fills his ears.

How deluded he was to think that he could walk away so easily. His task is done, yet he finds that he's still beholden to her. He needs to see her again, in spite of Mulder, in spite of who he is and where he stands in this tangle of death and betrayals. He can't help it.

The sigh he lets out is ragged and tense, a subdued testimony to the growing warmth beneath his lowered lids. He rolls his head under the heavy drops, but they do little for his sorrow. 

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, for all his selfishness and want. The water runs down his cheeks and over his lips.

They make very little noise, just as he was trained to do. There are two men at his door, another in the car. He doesn't know they've found him.

He hears the faint rustle when they enter his room, but for once he brushes it off.

Just moths at the window, he thinks. They throw themselves against the glass, wanting to be let in because they can't help themselves.

 

-end-


End file.
